


Breathe's Epilogue-shots

by SolitaryEngel



Series: Breathe Universe [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-10-17 11:26:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17559500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolitaryEngel/pseuds/SolitaryEngel
Summary: A collection of one-shots instead of a quickly summarized timeline of events to finish out Breathe, One, Two.





	1. Ginny One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ginny's chapters will be in first person to better convey her altered mental state. All others will be third as usual. I hope this isn't jarring.

# Ginny

* * *

* * *

    “So tell me, Ginevra, how was your week?”

    Pretty fucking lonely and depressing, as was the new norm, duh.

    “I had another dream about Harry,” I responded shortly. I knew how she was going to take _that_ and I hated, hated, hated.

    “Do you want to talk about it?

    “Do _you_? That's why we're here right? So you can dig through my brain and tell me I'm crazy, irrational, for hanging on so long? That I did bad things and am a bad person for what I did to him?”

    “I'm here to help you. If you don't want to talk about the dream, then we can discuss why that might be, without getting into the contents of it.”

    I scowled. Maybe my — well, my _ex_ had an easy and _grand_ old time talking to his healer but _I_ hated every bloody second of these court-mandated appearances. She didn't understand — couldn't understand — only listened to what _she_ thought I was trying to say — or maybe what she wanted me to say — and never heard _me_. Frills around her neck up to her ears and thick sleeves down to her knuckles; she knew nothing of true desperation. _Fight_. _Hate. Fight._

    “We fucked,” I said then, loving and hating the way her face pinched and her whole body seemed to want to shrink in on itself. “I was gagged and in restraints so I couldn't escape and he fucked — excuse me — ' _made love_ _to_ _me'_ slow and tender. Is that what you want to hear?”

    “Is it the truth? It sounds like quite a pleasant dream. Though, it shows that we have a lot of work to do if you are still dreaming of being in love with — _Harry Potter_.”

    Gag a _maggot_ , her eyelashes actually fluttered when she said his name. And she didn't understand what I was trying to say about the dream at all. I hated these fucking hours with this witch. Fifty-nine minutes left to go.

* * *

    “Hey, Luna.”

    I don't remember if we planned to meet up or if she just came because she felt like it. In any case, it was kind of nice that she was sitting there when I opened my door. My head was fucky and hadn't seen her in a week. I think it was a week. My time with the mind healer always made me feel like the details were swimming away from me. If there were a bunch of little me's in my head, they'd be swimming away... like sperms. Haha. Sperms.

    “Hello Ginny. How was your session?”

    Right to the point. The directness of the question brought me back to reality. Luna was both lighter than air _and_ sharp as a tack, it just depended on what angle you were looking from. I liked all angles, to be honest. She went back and forth between her excursions and England just for me. She wouldn't have left the Crumple-horned Snorkacks alone, otherwise.

    “It was awful, as usual.”

    “What did she say about your dream?” I'd told her about it right away. I always told her everything, and she woke right up wherever she was currently staying and listened. Sometimes I felt like she was a sponge, absorbing all my festering spots so I didn't have to live with them anymore. But she remained lighter than air. Big eyes, light as a Feather-Weight Charm.

    “That it sounded pleasant. I hate talking to her so fucking much. She doesn't fucking listen, she doesn't want to understand.”

    “Hmm. Yes, that wouldn't feel very good. Have you told her she's wrong about the dreams?”

    “Once. That was enough. She's in love with him, I think.”

    “Oh. She's met him? They shouldn't have assigned her to you.”

    Sharp, sharp, so fucking sharp. Someone else would be implying it was doubtful my Healer was literally in love with Harry. And maybe she was, in her gentle floaty way. But she didn't _seem_ concerned that I thought someone was in love with Harry, the way Ron would have, the way Hermione would have. Of course Luna saw deeper than they did. _They_ saw words. Inaudible words. Context I never thought or spoke. Luna saw feelings. The real ones, not made up in her head. I wasn't jealous, I was frustrated. She saw. Sharp-sharp. “No, she hasn't.”

    “I remember people fancied Professor Lockhart in my year before even seeing him.”

    Oh. I'd accidentally ripped a napkin. I guess I picked it up at some point. I'd bought the thin ones, white... and soft so they didn't hurt my face. That was before. I remember that. I think I might choose rough ones these days. A napkin with bite. Something like that wouldn't fall apart in my hands, that might scratch the sorry parts of my face off.

    “ _Sarcio_ ,” cast Luna, and the threads rewove themselves, making the napkin as good as new. I started picking at it again. Luna would fix it, I knew. If I had money I'd buy her something huge. Maybe a Crumple-Horned Snorkack. “If your relationship with Harry was so painful that it gives you nightmares, why do you think you have such a hard time letting go?”

    Like a fucking needle. But I loved both sides. Sharp as a tack, lighter than air. “Because he was mine. He was supposed to be mine.”

    “When he was in pain with you, too?” Sharp, sharp. But this time, she cut. Not a sponge, a knife.

    “We were supposed to fucking _be_ together, Luna!” Fucking be together. Be fucking together. Be together, fucking. My mind couldn't settle on one iteration; they all were supposed to have been true. None of them were.

    “Hmm. Why?” Tack, tack, tack. But I knew why. I always knew why. I _always_ knew why.

    “What do you mean, ‘ _why_ ?’” I answered. The question sounded so good, ringing in my ears after my mental echo. “Because I worked _hard_ for him. I worked _so fucking hard_ to be what he needed. I waited while he ran away from me. I smiled, and I hid, and was his _delicate_ princess during the war. And afterwards, I put him back together. Hermione and Ron, they had each other, but Harry had _me_. And I listened to stories that made my heart bleed and gave me nightmares for months but I held on and pushed through and was everything he needed me to be, so he could _heal_.

    “And things — it's not like things got _easier_ when we had our own place. I supported him through failure after failure, trying my best to hold him up and to reassure him that I still wanted him and that we were still okay for _month_ after _month_ after _month_!

    “But it all kept not being enough. _He_ didn't _want_ me. I could tell... I could tell for _so long_ that he didn't like to look at me, he didn't like to touch me. I'm a fucking prize Luna. PlayWizard could make full _vaults_ off my fucking tits alone.”

    Luna nodded. ‘Of course. Obviously,’ she seemed to think at me. The gem. Like a fucking summer breeze, Luna.

    “Two years, serving a man who didn't want the whole of me. Nearly _four_ years pushing and pushing… pushing myself so hard — it's all my soul knows how to do any more. I loved him so _long_ , Luna. Ten fucking years. So long when he barely looked at me. Seeing other people, but looking at him. Always him. When he finally did look at me, I thought, this is it. I'll work hard, and I'll be able to keep him. But I had to keep at it. Push, push, push.”

    “I think it's time to stop ‘pushing,’” Luna said then.

    The way she said it made me sad. I was so angry all the time these days, that the emotion caught me by surprise. She wasn't the kind to scold, so it just came out idly… like a thought she'd just had and huh, there it was. I might have yelled at someone _else_ saying it, might have wanted to scratch their face and throw them out, but not Luna. I felt that she and I were the same, a bit. Only she had her shit way more together than I did. Lighter than air, better than a stalker.

    Sad. It felt sad because the way she said it made it sound true. No agenda, no attempts to control me. 'Hmm, I think it might be this,’ kind of a tone. Fucking Luna, got me to think deep without even sounding like she wanted to.

    Luna was so much better than my stupid Mind Healer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like this tiny introduction to Ginny's new normal. There will be more of her, even more unfiltered thoughts and speech than you see here.


	2. Parent Orientation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry nervously greets the parents of students who might take his class... if he doesn't screw up the orientation.

* * *

* * *

 

   “Good morning, nice to see you again. Take a seat wherever you'd like.”

   Harry’s voice was friendly and his demeanor calm, but inside his head was a snarl of worries. There was a lot of responsibility on his shoulders; today's parent orientation _had_ to go well. The Fischers passed by, commenting amongst themselves on the unique seating — little pods of chairs surrounding a singular table, the comfort level of the arrangement hovering suitably between the cushy Gryffindor common room couches and the rigid wooden chairs of the Library.

   Madame Droope sat to the side, smiling officially at every newcomer but letting Harry be the first face of the classroom. He appreciated the professional courtesy just as much as he wished she would just take over completely and let him hide in the reconstructed Vanishing Cabinet.

    _That_ had been Harry's idea. The one from Borgin's shop had been relocated to the classroom to provide the students transportation during their field trip to Hogwarts later the semester. Now there were four cabinets sitting in an empty classroom — the Greeting Room, officially named and everything — and a corresponding cabinet in each of his classrooms.

   Harry couldn’t wait to see the looks of wonder on their faces when they stepped through the double doors of the Great Hall for the first time.

   “Good morning, Professor Potter!”

   “Good morning, Miss Smithwick, how have you been?” he asked the energetic seven-year old who entered next. Her parents were doing their best to look confident, like they knew they belonged in the room, but their eyes rested unfamiliarly on the items he had out on display, and they stood close together in the large space.

   “I made my dolly clean! With _magic!_ ”

   “That’s good, I think. Was she dirty?”

   “My big brother threw her in the mud.” Her face scrunched with all the indignation one her age could possess, and he stifled a grin at how adorable it was instead of ferocious.

   “Well, I’m glad you were able to rescue her. Mr. and Mrs. Smithwick, you may take a seat wherever is comfortable.” Harry leaned down to confide in the girl. “Why don’t you stay close to keep them out of trouble.”

   “They’ll be alright,” the girl said dismissively, but went to sit with them anyway. Harry bit back another smile, not wanting the girl to think he was laughing at her. It seemed seven was too old to manipulate a child into thinking her parents needed safekeeping.

   The next family to come in was a young woman and her six-year-old son. It was easy to smile and greet them. Six years was the minimum age for children attending, and Harry was glad they could come together. When he’d done the home visit it was clear they did not have a lot of money, but the single mother who’d fallen pregnant quite young was almost desperate in her desire to help her son in any way she could. Harry was thrilled every time he saw love like that during the visits.

   As beautiful as her sincerity was, it reminded him that there were no children attending from orphanages or foster homes yet. The Ministry had not decided whether they wanted temporary guardians to know about their world, but Madame Droope was convinced opening the class up to Muggle parents was already a good start. Harry had already seen a few tense parents over the breadth of the UK become reconciled to the idea that the magical slip-ups were completely involuntary, and he hoped to continue seeing that understanding expand.

   The next people through the door were old friends.

   “Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, it’s good to have you join us today. I trust Victoire is well?”

   Bill smiled in that easy, friendly way he had and nodded. “She's enjoying the day with her Grandmum.” He looked around, surprise ticking up his eyebrows. “Ron and Hermione not here yet?”

   “Not yet. Knowing them 'Mione is probably recounting the diapers in the bag and Ron is making her lose her place by convincing her that wizards just vanish the mess.”

   Bill laughed. “Did that really happen?”

   Harry nodded absently. “It's a frequent argument. Ah, sorry, I must —”

   Fleur tugged Bill over to the Smithwick's, probably keen to talk to the parents of another little girl as Harry turned to the next family to arrive.

   “Hello, welcome,” he said gently to the little boy. His father was holding his hand tightly. Too tightly, in his opinion.

   “We're not late are we?” the mother asked cheerfully.

   “Not at all,” Harry said, pointing to the clock which had a single hand, currently pointing to “early.”

   “Oh, how funny!” the woman exclaimed.

   “Good morning, Professor Potter. It's good to see you again,” the father said awkwardly, sticking out his hand. On his other side his son winced as the man’s hold on his son’s hand tightened, but luckily the father let go when he tried to tug it free.

   “You as well. Feel free to sit anywhere you like.”

   Harry caught Madame Droope's eye as they meandered to a free spot. That family, the Bartons, Harry was watching closely. He was apparent that the family wasn't prejudiced against their son the same way the Dursley's had been to him, but he suspected the father had issues controlling how he vented his anger. Even during that short conversation he'd unintentionally hurt his son when he'd felt just a slight bit of social anxiety and made not even a suggestion of noticing or feeling remorse. It wasn’t proof, but it was a breadcrumb. Another one.

   He saw Madame Droope excuse herself from the Weasleys and the Smithwick’s to go and visit with them next, and knew she would be looking for signs of mistreatment like he did.

   “Hi, Harry, sorry we're late,” came from the door then.

   “Hey Ron, 'Mione. Rose over at her grandmum's?”

   “Yes,” Hermione said, a little more sedately than her husband, who was completely disheveled. “We'll go ahead and take a seat, good luck today.”

   “Thanks,” Harry said, smiling. Ron gave him a thumbs-up over his shoulder as he allowed himself to be ushered to a seat.

   “Well, I think that about does it,” Harry announced. “I know I've met with each of you one on one, but it's great to see you all together. Welcome to the very first Magical Minor Assistance Division’s education program session! Shall we begin?”

   Behind him came a quiet 'click’ as the clock moved from 'early’ to 'on time.’


	3. Ginny Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning... this is a Ginny chapter so... language, weird thoughts, and uh, a far kinkier brain than Seb or Harry. Semi-skin color fetish warning?

# Ginny

* * *

* * *

    Sometimes it felt like the holes in my head consumed me. Like all I was, was _holes_. Empty, but with outer structure. Every once in a while, I went to try to fill one back up, try to become more solid. Hence, why I walked into Dean's gallery. His work was nice. I mean, _I_ hated it, but I could tell it was nice anyway. To others.

    “Harry's not here, Ginny,” he said after a moment. He might have been standing there the whole time, I didn't know. His twenties looked good on him. His jaw was a little rougher, more… man-shaped. He still had that pink spot on his lip, the very center of his lower lip leading into his mouth, fading into the brown of his skin like a tongue sticking out, permanently taunting me.

    “No. I know. I came here to see you.” He looked so wary of me. I kind of liked the feeling, but hated it more. Everyone except for Luna was so fucking suspicious around me. Scourge of the wizarding world. No more Death Eaters, just redheads with obsessive tendencies stalking the Boy-Who-Lived-Twice. I'm the new She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Smiled-At.

    I _really_ didn't like comparing myself to the monster who used to be called Tom. Who used to be inside me, outside of me, taking all of my soul into himself on the floor of the Chamber. Holes, holes, holes. I didn't _want_ those holes.

    “Why, Ginny?” He sounded impatient. Did he ask more than once? Probably. I always chose to believe that it's not my problem when it happened. Can't be helped.

    “Well, I guess I was wondering why you didn't tell me. We saw each other for a bit, at school. Why didn't you say you were gay, then?”

    “I'm not gay.”

    “Fuck _that_ shit. Everyone… even _Harry_ knows —”

    Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, Harry's a bit new to all this. I definitely _prefer_ men, and Harry and I have only discussed men together, but I'm bisexual. Open to both. I was with _you_ because I wanted to be. _You_ weren't, though.”

    I flinched. I was very novice in relationships back then, and didn't really understand the consequences when I was testing out Dean as a kid, staring at Harry over his shoulder. Since Harry had been the endgame and  _that_ had gone so well I probably was still novice, even now.

    “I mean, I get it,” Dean said then, noticing my discomfort. “You were really young, and Ron was irritatingly overprotective. I get wanting to rebel — I get being the only girl, wanting to make a scene.”

    He didn't get it at all. He was trying to be nice though, which was rare. _So_ _Creepy. Stalker. Don't look at her._

    “I complained about that a lot, huh?” I said, trying to inject humor into my voice. I mostly just sounded tired though. He noticed — he actually was always good at noticing what was up with me. I felt smothered back then, but to be fair, I wasn't really into him back then, either.

    “How's your sentence going?” he asked then, ripping me from my guilty nostalgia.

    “It's… whatever,” I said, a gruff, unflattering tone entering my voice. The normal one, in other words. These days I really only got a few sentences in before the anger overrode the polite. “I hate the sessions.”

    “They're keeping you out of Azkaban.”

    He _must_ know how badly I hate them. Everyone knows. Everyone talks. All about Ginny. Poor Ginny. Awful Ginny. Scary Ginny.

    “Yeah, I know.”

    He cleaned his paint splattered hands on a oily rag, the liquid gleaming over his brown skin and making the warm shade of it seem to glow. I'd always liked his hands, even if I had only been so-so into him as a person. His palms were lighter, a creamy tan color. I liked to see the border, where dark met light. It wasn't a straight change… The lines and valleys of his hands were dark and broke up the edge in interesting patterns.

    Dean chuckled.

    “What?” I asked, head snapping up. Well, I _meant_ it to snap. It just kinda… rolled back, lazily, while my eyes did all the snapping I'd requested. Sometimes my body didn't listen to my urgency. Other times... all I was was urgency, and nothing else.

    “Nothing. Just — no, nothing. Listen, do you think I could paint you? I feel inspired to paint a certain mood, all of a sudden, and I just finished with another one for the day.”

    “Don't you have customers?”

    “It's not odd for me to call in a temp to cover when I get too inspired to be interrupted. There are a couple people who work on-call in Diagon Alley, we call them in when we can't cover our own place. Usually, it's someone who can't find other employment… but the guy I like to call does a good enough job.”

    Over-explaining. Maybe he thought I was stupid now because my brain had been tangled for me. Maybe I was, because the information _was_ interesting. I never knew there were… substitute teachers, for the shops. Substitute workers. They wouldn't have hired me.

    “Well… I guess. I can't stay late, though, I have work tomorrow.”

    Dean called in the temporary worker, an old man who hobbled along but had a nice smile that didn't extend to where I was standing. The papers had a field day with the trial and my crimes against the wizarding world's favorite son. _Stalker. Stalker._ It was to be expected, I guessed. _I_ had come to expect it, at least.

    Dean brought me into the back room and closed the door. I remembered it from when I came to the opening night of the art therapy sessions, but it had been a long time since that day. There were many more easels now and the shelves were absolutely crammed full of dirty bottles and tubes — all well used, it seemed. Good for him, or whatever.

    Dean brought out some plain swathes of fabric in different colors and held them up to me one by one, finally choosing an emerald green uncomfortably similar to the shade of Harry's eyes.

    “Okay,” he said then. “Go ahead and strip down and wrap this around yourself — kind of like this — to make it look like dress robes. When I come back, I'll adjust it the way that I want in the painting.”

    “Huh, it really does look like a dress when you wrap it this way,” I commented, looking down at myself. I was proud of myself. I practically sounded impressed, which was a polite emotion to have. Good job, Gin. No — not _that_ name, Ginny. _Fuck_.

    “An artist's skill,” he said smiling a bit. “I can't afford to buy clothes in every size but I can afford to buy different fabrics in every color. Fold it this way or that, and it could be a shirt, could be pants, a headscarf, could be anything at all. I can add extra detail on the canvas, but the folds are crucial to get down just right.”

    “Diverse. Shit, no — versatile. Thank fuck, I got the right word.”

    Dean made a strangled snorting noise, like he wanted to laugh but refused to let it out.

    “I'll be back in a few minutes. My personal stuff is hidden with the wraps. I’ll knock before I come back in.”

    “Don’t bother. Just get what you need and come back out.”

    “Eh… Ginny…”

    “I just don’t care.” It was a hole. I walked naked around St. Mungo's for a while. Accepted visitors with no robes on. It wasn't really filled, yet, only covered over. Covered with clothes.

    He didn’t argue. But he didn’t come back fast, so I was modest by that time anyway. He shifted the fabric; my fingers could never have gotten it to lay as flat and perfectly pleated like his could. He had a bench, and conjured a wedge and had me lay on it, perfectly reclined. I felt like the pose was regal, but the fabric was exposing a lot of skin, and he told me to look angry as he set a medium-brown canvas on an easel.

    “Why isn’t it white?”

    “White is the brightest color you can have without actually casting a light spell — without glowing. White makes all the darker colors look darker than they actually are, in comparison. A middle tone is better to the darks look dark and the brights look bright. Everything is dark compared to white.”

    “Yeah, I fucking know how that feels.”

    He was quiet then. I guess it’s weird to anthropomorphize _colors._ He painted for a long time. It was fine, until I noticed that inside his dandy tight pants he was hard.

    Then it was _interesting_. For me at least. He hadn’t noticed that _I_ noticed yet. I pulled the wrap aside a bit, well, a lot, and spread my legs. Artistically. You know, for the painting.

    “What do you want this painting to look like again?” I said then. He glanced over and did a _fucking double take_. I always wanted someone to do that. At least I think I did, maybe someone already had and it had been erased. Hmm.

    “What are you doing, Ginny?” His words were firm but he licked his lips. They shone then. I smiled, and he saw, and swallowed. Fuck, I _so_ had him.

    Who was I, anymore? Holes. All holes. Right then, I wanted him to fill one.

    “Extending an invitation, I think. You seem to be _enjoying_ painting me.” I wanted him to screw the holes out of my brain. That’s what I wanted. I couldn’t remember the last time I had sex. Literally. Couldn’t. I was fine with him, here, now, I thought.

    “Don’t fuck around, Ginny.”

    “It’s a serious invitation. Take it or fucking leave it Dean. Just know I can't have soft. My one condition.”

    “Fuck,” he groaned. There. Speaking my fucking language. Haha. Fuck, fucking.

    I rested myself against the wedge, trying my best to burn his skin off with my eyes. That’s sexy, right?

    “Yep,” I said as if agreeing with his choice of swear. “Let’s do that.”

    He stared. My face — my covered body which he’d been looking at for at _least_ two hours now already, I mean, what else is there to see — and most importantly to _me,_ my exposed vagina. Ugh. what a word.

    My _cunt._

    No, I don’t like that word either, to be honest. Pussy? That’s a good one. Have I really not thought about my downstairs since the Obliviation? I sure as hell didn’t feel like such a bloody non-fucking nun while Dean took stuttering steps towards me, that’s for sure.

    “What am I doing?” he asked.

    “Me,” I said, as if he’d even wanted an answer in the first place.

    “Why are you doing this?” A finger grazed my labia, slipping just past the folds to feel my heat. Brave, brave Gryffindor. Fall into my web and let me eat you.

    “Bored. You had an erection. I wanted it. Do there need to be better reasons? It’s just fucking, Dean. I’m not crazy. You don’t have to worry about any sort of _after._ I’ll walk right out that door.”

    “You said you don’t do soft.” The finger speared in then, a sharp jab into me that was a _very_ good omen to how this might play out.

    “Never.”

    “Do you know the traffic light system?”

    “They run on e-lec-tri-ci-ty,” I said. I remembered how to say that word. That was good. My dad always said ekeltricity, before. I’d been avoiding him. Everyone. Maybe he said it right by this point. Doubtful.

    “They tell cars when they need to go, slow down, or stop entirely. For ‘not soft’ sex they can mean ‘everything is fine’ for green, ‘that’s too much’ for yellow, or ‘we need to stop everything permanently’ for red. Does this make sense?”

    “Yeah, I’m not a fucking idiot.”

    Dean got a look like he wanted to laugh, but he hardened himself against it. I had misgivings, then. I didn’t like _mean._ I didn't like _punishments_. My milkshake for a brain was punishment enough.

    “I’m not a masochist,” I warned him then. “I’m amazing. I just like to be made to feel things.”

    “Like this.” His one finger became two abruptly with a forceful thrust that I felt in my teeth. Yes, like that. It didn't hurt, but it was _a lot._

    “Replace that with your dick and we’re in business,” I said. Though, he wasn't doing a bad job there with his hand. I was pretty dry when I invited him over, but I could tell things were livening up down there. My first not-insane sex experience. I _wanted_.

    “What am I doing?” he asked again. Merlin, but he was _really_ not making me feel good about myself. Then he practically tore his Muggle pants off and fuck if I didn’t give a shit anymore. His penis was uncut and average length, but it was wider at the tip than at the base, like a balloon. I’d never seen one like that before.

    I’d only seen Harry and Thadd. _Fuck._ Shut _up._

    I wanted Dean's cock inside, wanted to see how that bulbous shape would feel shrinking and growing over and over again with every thrust.

    “Fuck that feels good.”

    Tasted good too. Salty. A little bitter, but much better than Thadd. Fuck, _shit._

    When did I start sucking him off? I pulled off and tugged him down to me, instead.

    “Green?” he asked, that big tip poised at my entrance.

    “Green,” I said, feeling awkward as all hell to say a _color_ in the middle of sex. Well, I had anthropomorphized every color other than white two hours ago, so, par for the course I guess. Muggle reference. Score.

    Oh. _Oh_ , he felt good inside. The tip stretched me open abruptly and I could feel myself closing around the skinnier portion of the base, could feel the fat part moving all the way in, and stretching me open on the way out.

    “Faster,” I said, because he was too slow, too slow, too — yes, that's better but still I needed — “Harder, you fuck stick, _Merlin,_ was I not fucking clear?”

    He actually laughed then. I horrified everyone with my mouth these days and he _laughed._ That… that was a good feeling.

    “Green?” he asked, gripping my arm and using it to pull me harder onto him like one of those toys you yank along the ground with a string.

    “Yes, yes.” So good, so perfect. His hand moved to my chest to help support his balance, and the compression was nice, added to the whole ‘fucking’ experience.

    “Harder.”

    “God damn, you don't mess around. This is amazing. Touch yourself,” Dean ordered then, panting with exertion. “I'm not fucking a rag doll.”

    “I — I don't need to — oh, _fuck —”_

    “God _damn,_ fucking _yes_ ,” Dean spat out, clearly pleased with my hands-free fuckability. His hand on my chest pressed down further, and my gasps came in louder as my whole core worked to get air in.

    “Yellow,” I groaned. “Air.”

    “Kay,” he said, moving the hand back to my arm instead and using it to yank me harder on his cock.

    “Please, please, _please_ ,” I begged. It was all so intense, _yes_ , this is exactly what I always wanted — the dial turned up to the max and my body screaming at me that it was too much to handle — Dean's hands slamming me into him and a snap of his hips afterwards bunting my whole body away just far enough for his arms to jerk me back, his body straining with the athleticism and feeling completely _dominated_ — _yes._

    Dean dropped down then, biting me savagely on the outside of my shoulder — the deltoid, where my robes would cover tomorrow, very thoughtful, really — and now it was solely his hips doing the work, thrust-thrust-thrust and then a _grind_ , rubbing his wiry pubic hair into my clit until I shrieked and smacked at him to go back to fucking.

    “I didn't hear ‘yellow’ or 'red,’” he said, voice mocking and so fucking devious as he pulled my hips closer still, smashing into my clit with that tight thatch of hair, rub-rub-rub-rub —

    “Fuuu _uu_ UU _UUCK_!” I screamed, my climax crashing into me with the continued assault.

    “That's it,” he praised, victorious, then began slamming into me again, his hands grabbing into the meat of my ass to lift my pelvis up to take me even deeper, harder.

    After my climax passed the strong rhythm he kept up kept my pleasure flowing, and I might have been able to orgasm again had he not come first, starting inside me and then quickly pulling out and spraying the rest of his fluid over my pubic hair and leg.

    “Perfect,” he said in a whisper. “Stay just like that. Don't move.”

    Buck naked and our combined juices still shining on his prick, he ran back to the easel and started dabbing his brush into the paint mounds on his table, then distributing then onto the canvas.

    “What the Hell, Dean?” I gasped. “Is that why you —”

    “Of course,” he said, unconcerned. “I mean, the sex was great, don't get me wrong, but the image you make right now? That's the real prize, here. Fucked-out, my come shining on your thigh… slipping out of you… damn, Ginny.”

    I really didn't know whether to take that as a compliment or not. I laid still despite my mental turmoil, feeling the fluids dry and become far less pleasant to have on me after an hour or so. Dean's length never fully deflated after the tryst. It just hung down, limp and half-full, until as his eyes continued to study the picture I made and the painting, it was on the rise once more...

    “Do you want to add more decoration?” I asked then, feeling daring… a power in my body I hadn't felt since the very beginning of my affair, when I had felt _alive_ for the first time in years —

    “No,” he answered, voice bored though his dick was _clearly_ interested, asshole. “This painting is almost done. Be patient and then you can go.”

    Damn. That was a dismissal if _I_ had ever heard one. “ _I_ think I'll go _now_ ,” I said, peeved. I got up and ripped the fabric off, the pins making a satisfyingly loud noise as they tore through the fabric.

    Ignoring my naked body, which was marked up by his grabby hands and bitey mouth and _very fucking beautiful to see,_ _dickwipe_ , his gaze dropped to the bundled wrap, where I dropped it.

    “I'll send you a bill.”

    “Fuck off,” I answered, jamming my t-shirt over my head. ‘ _I'll just stick my bra into my robe pocket,_ ’ I thought. Arms came around me then from behind.

    “Green?” Dean whispered in my ear, fingers diving between my legs and squelching through the fluids there. My knees weakened — fuck, _yes_ , the soreness was so _good_ , and I sounded so fucking _used_ — but my resolve didn't waver. I wasn't into humiliation. I wasn't into _dismissal_. I was a fucking queen and I wanted to be used up like one and then worshipped after. It's all I ever wanted. Eh, maybe when I was little I just wanted the queen part. Princess, maybe.

    “Red,” I said, and those lovely fingers with their brown and tan sides froze. Merlin, I wanted to push myself onto them, grind out more of what he was just doing. “ _Red_.”

    “Fine,” he said, and I wanted to take it back, wanted to jump onto him and ride him so fucking hard he forgot all about why I was such a hateful woman. So good he forgot why he wanted to treat me so poorly. Even though I didn't even like being on top. I think.

    I put on my jeans — Harry got me into these types of Muggle clothes. Most magical women or even part-human women didn't wear anything under their robes, and men — sometimes not even underwear. I didn't, before Harry. Well, I wore underwear, at least. Little ducks, bunnies, flowers, you know — the young-girl drill.

    Anyway, now I do. Wear Muggle clothes. I wear T-shirts in summer, like now, and sweaters and sweatshirts in winter, all with robes overtop. Sweatshirt hoods sticking out of the collar of modern open-front robes was a huge trend last winter. The trousers and shorts didn't usually match, but that was the wizarding world for you. I wonder if I should stop, go to a witch's clothing store and replace everything with _proper_ witch gear. Eh. I didn't have a lot of money left and the Harpies didn't pay shit for the charity work they gave me.

    Robes on, then. Bra into the pocket. I should just get rid of it. It's a Muggle thing, too. Free the boobies.

    “Ta, then,” I said, fully invested into my grumpy mood.

    “Don't you want to see it?”

    I stopped. Might as well. Then I turned and went to the easel.

    Yeesh. That was _very_ explicit. Even the fabric which had been opaque on my body had been sheered out in the painting to display even more of me. All guess work, though. Dean hadn't seen any of that when on top of me. I looked like a bad woman in the painting. Someone to hate. He'd chosen fabric the same color as Harry's eyes and painted me as a harlot. _Witch_.

    “I'll paint the background in later,” Dean said, voice focused and thoughtful as he skimmed his finger over some vague shapes sketched with charcoal.

    “That's not how my nipples look,” I said instead of imagining his vision like he clearly wanted me to. “Nor my belly. You got it all wrong.”

    “Ah, fuck you, Ginny.”

    “I think you just did. _Then_ you fucked _up_. See ya, Dean. Let me know if you get your head out of your ass. It's been… well, it's been whatever.”

    It felt pretty good to leave after getting the last word. Even if my crotch was wet and dirty and my bra was in my pocket while walking through the middle of the Alley on a busy Sunday evening. A mom pulled her kid to the far side of her as I walked past. Just then, I felt like I had actually earned it. Squish, squish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was glossed over but not explicitly said, so I thought I'd spell it out here: Dean saw Ginny looking at his hands and remembered her almost-fetish for his them when they were teens. Seeing the woman who caused his now-best-mate Harry so much pain he became inspired while she was right in front of him ogling to paint her as the villian he, and a lot of other people (you?) saw her as. He chooses Harry's eye-color for her dress and has her pose with a vicious look on her face, painting her dress to be see-through like an evil seductress bent on causing ruin. It was revenge, and lust, all together. Between you and me, taking advantage of a not-quite-there woman to humiliate her with his art.
> 
> *Ahem* In regards to Dean's unusual /shape,/ I've actually seen one like that before, doing "research" for properly describing Seb and Harry's frotting, actually. It left a lasting impression, even weeks later, as you can tell. ;)


	4. Ginny Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short meeting between Ron and Ginny. It doesn't go well.

# Ginny

    “So you and Dean, huh?” Ron said, as if he'd rather not have said it at all.

    Then don't, I thought, but it was too late to warn him, I guess.

    We had started having dinner out regularly after he arrested me. I had hated him for a while — it seemed _no one_ would listen to me about the danger Harry was in, I remembered that much — but he sat outside my holding cell every day while my meal was delivered and eaten and then after the trial…

    I guess I get some parts of it. I get that Harry is now in a stable relationship — gag, with _Snape_ — and that my fears were exaggerated. But nobody would fucking listen. I was all alone to deal with them, to worry. Harry, sweet Harry, who had loved me so gently and _made love_ to me always with his heart out on display was with a man and _no one_ had any real information on _who_ he was or where he came from — no one knew _anything_. I knew I messed up when I cheated. I was tired and bored and Harry was in bed from morning to night and then laid there still, startling me awake every hour with his nightmares until morning again — never getting up for long.

    So, yeah, Harry was in a bad way when he finally agreed to healing. I probably was too, back then. I'd been seeing Thadd for a few weeks then and the _power_ and _thrill_ was fading. I just wanted Harry to get better and _we_ could get better too, and leave that part where I had to substitute behind me. And then I got caught — _stupid_ — and Harry didn't want to reconcile.

    Not that I didn't try. A lot. For a month.

    Whatever. _My_ place is great. Though, I did have to sell a lot of stuff after the sentencing. I needed everything to change. Clean, white, rounded furnishings, the opposite in a lot of ways to the Burrow but the blank slate of the place gives me the feeling like I can breathe. My life is a mess but I can deal with it in a white-on-white room. If I eat sparingly I can still afford it, too. Win.

    “How do you know about Dean?” I asked finally. Ron was used to my silences. He knew I had a lot to think about after everything went so badly. It's why posing for Dean hadn't been so bad, at the time. Lots of silence, not having to answer questions. Except during the other part. That had been rather loud. Rough.

    “He told everyone at dinner Sunday.”

    I choked, a bit of my sparkling wine coming up to sting my nose, though thankfully it didn't actually come _out_ of it.

    “Harry there?” I coughed out.

    “Yeah. Harry and Sebastian both.”

    “What the fuck did he say,” I asked, stabbing my chicken. It wasn't a satisfying meat to stab — I'd much rather have Dean's rude _little_ cock on my plate to mutilate.

    “He said you two had sex.”

    “Fucking shitass. Bet he had a good laugh. ‘Here: your revenge. I took care of it for you.’”

    “No, it was more like a confession. He's pretty close with them, you know. Something like that, he wanted to tell them right away. I don't think he meant it to happen at all.”

    “Yeah, he was a jerk.”

    “Then why did you _do_ it?” There was a strong note of exasperation in Ron's voice. I knew he didn't like who I'd become. He didn't know me anymore, why I did everything I apparently had, or do nowadays. _I_ thought that I was the same as always. Just angrier, with a lot of pieces missing. Lost, but fighting my way out. Felt like I was always fucking fighting these days.

    “He wasn't a jerk _before_ ,” I snapped back. “Only after. _Before_ he was perfectly appealing, _trust_ me.” That wasn’t really true. He’d acted like coming to me had been almost... against his will. He’d succumbed anyway, though, and I _know_ he’d loved it. He'd had that look. That ‘holy-fucking-shit-yes-this’ look.

    “Probably guilt,” Ron said then, as if it were a perfectly reasonable thing to feel after an encounter with me. _He_ was a shitass too.

    “Fuck off,” I groused.

    He frowned then. “You can't come around Rose with that kind of mouth. I'm serious. I won't allow that kind of talk around her when she comes.”

    “ _What the_ **_fuck_** , _Ron_!” I whispered heatedly. “Don't you _dare_ keep my niece from me! That isn't… that isn't _fair_!”

    “Ginny, please…” Ron's eyes were _shining_ , Merlin, was he about to cry? “Ginny, you know I love you. You're my little sister. Please, I _miss_ you —”

    “ _Miss_ me? I'm right _here_! You see me all the — I can't do this anymore. I can't — _dammit_ , Ron. I'm leaving. Tell Dean ‘fuck you very much’ for me, okay? _Bye_.”

    He sighed heavily as I walked away. _Sighed._ Like all this was my fault. Like _he_ didn't threaten to withhold my own blood from me.

    Fucking _fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one, just the fallout from last time.  
> Hope you all are well :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny wanders, and winds up somewhere that turns out to be quite unexpectedly safe.

# Ginny

  Fetching things for the Harpies was demeaning. Water that they could spell into being for themselves, sweat rags that they could conjure if they really wanted, picking up the Quaffle from the Pitch and passing it back up to the chasers or the practice ref who were all  _literally professional flyers and could do it in half a second_ — all fucking useless, deprecating work. But they agreed to take me on when no one else would. They'd actually wanted to sign me, right after graduation, but I'd wanted the puzzle and intrigue of the super-secret Experimental Spells division.

    That's all I can remember about that. That I wanted to go to one, more than the other. I spent  _two years_  working for them and ‘poof.’ All gone. So much was gone. I really only remember Harry. The only thing that was left. How hard I tried, oh, and the affair that took place in our shared apartment. The build up to it at work? Gone. Only Harry. And cheating in our bed. And the couch. Floor. Kitchen.

    Fuck.

    But the Harpies are at least nice about it. They wanted me then, and they pitied me now. No one else would take me. To much damage. To their reputation, and to my brain. Two years, it was. Poof.

    “Good work today, Weasley,” the manager said at the end of it. I thanked her. I still remembered how to smile around strangers. I did  _fine_ , in my opinion. Not good. There was not much pride in delivering water. Water that could be conjured by the players whenever they wanted it.  _Fuck_.

    I was a little off today. It happened sometimes. The thoughts cycled. Sometimes I remembered that I'd said something before, sometimes I didn't. I wonder what Harry was doing. Probably fucking his fiance.

    Damn. I'm not supposed to think like that.

    It's funny, before they fucking lobotomised me I was so concerned, in love with Harry, worried for his well-being. I wasn't jealous, wasn't prone to obsessing beyond ‘keep him safe.’ Now, the intrusive thoughts spanned the gamut of reasonable and un-FUCKING-reasonable. Sometimes I thought he was the reason my brain was like this.

    Most of the time I knew it was my fault.

    That's what they told me, anyway. I don't remember  _that_  part. The stalking. Strangely, I'd used experimental spells to do it.  _Created_  a spell to do it. I don't remember how to experiment anymore.

    “Ginny? What… are you doing?”

    Oh. I was outside Dean's studio. I had no fucking clue how I'd gotten there. I think I’d been standing still out on the street for a while, judging by the weirded-out look on his face.

    “Thought I'd see if you'd say sorry for how you treated me,” I said instead of telling the truth. No one knew how bad it got. But Dean was looking at me with his dark, doubtful eyes, and I didn't think it passed by him this time.

    “Yeah, I guess. I mean, I guess I  _am_ sorry. I didn't know how to handle what happened.”

    I looked around. Diagon Alley was fairly deserted. It was a Tuesday afternoon after all. I guess we could have this conversation here, with him half hanging out of his shop. Gallery. Thing.

    “Wanna make an accurate painting, this time?”

    What did I say? Well, now that I think about it… I looked down Dean's frame, wearing exclusively Muggle clothes — too tight, like he was trying to attract a man, not a woman, but I wouldn't complain if he did me  _done_ the same as last time. But nicer, after.

    “God — Merlin — damn…” Dean said, turning his head to press his forehead to the doorframe. “I can't say no,” he said into the hinge there. “Just come in.”

    “I think that'll be your job,” I said lightly. I didn't use to be this loose. The affair had been an _enormous_  aberration, I remember that much. And so far I hadn't tried to date or hook up at all in the past three months after the brain swirl. But I was looking forward to this, with him. “Shall I wear the purple, this time?”

    “Black. Has to be black.”

    “Whatever the artist wants.”

    It was silent as he handed the cloth over— not shiny, this time... it was pure black velvet that absorbed the light, instead. I stood naked in front of him while he draped it for me, leaving one arm and boob bare but the rest of it pinned into a rather conservative shape.

    “Renaissance,” he said finally. “Conservative dress, but one breast out. A symbol of both feminine purity and the destiny of woman as mother. But I want to fuck it all up. Green?”

    “Kelly fucking green, Dean.”

    “Rhymes,” he said, smashing his mouth to mine.

    There hadn't been kissing last time. I rather liked the way his mouth took mine. His lips were bigger than my own; they swallowed me up. They were soft, too, not chapped like Harry's always were. Shit.

    He pulled the bottom of the dress up, pushed me hard so I fell onto the soft bench we’d used last time, as well. Then he was using those plump lips on my pussy and all thoughts of dry, broken lips fled.

    Fuck, he looked good between my legs. Felt good too. It wasn't hard to keep up the appropriate encouragements, he sucked them right out of me as he lipped at my clit and swallowed up my entire center. Mouth wide, covered the whole thing and _gulped_. Fucking damn, no one's ever done that before.

     _'No one, hah.'_ Really there was only the two. Harry and Thadd.  _No_.

    Dean's hands spread my legs then — painful, too wide. He wanted my attention back, but I wasn't into pain.

    “Yellow, hips,” I gasped. His grip retracted, barely a centimeter, but it was the right amount anyway. “Green.”

    Fuck, he ate me good. He was  _everywhere_ , did everything. Flicking my clit until I spasmed, fucking me with his tongue, licking me up and down and holy _shit_  sticking a finger up my butt. I wasn't a boy, or really even a freak, but okay. I would dig it, if he kept moving it  _and_  his tongue at the same time like that.

    “Fuck me,” I demanded. It was great, so great, but I wanted his cock. It wouldn't be enough if I stayed so empty the whole time.

    “Yeah, I'm gonna,” he said, before reapplying himself to my downstairs. Oh Merlin, I wanted to complain, but what if he stopped doing  _that_ , just right there —

    “Do that, do  _that_ , don't move, do — Merlin,  _please, oh, no-no-no, yeesssss_!”

    He lapped at me still, like I was the last bowl of sugar on Earth. Humming and making contented noises like a fucking cat enjoying it's meal and mouthing at my spent flesh. Fuck yes, this was how I deserved to be treated.

    Maybe.

    Fuck. The holes were now in my self-esteem.

    “I'm going to fuck you,” he said into my labia, then, bringing me out of it. “I'm going to destroy you, just a bit. Going to make you come on my cock, going to break you down.”

    I moaned. His mouth was so warm and soft still. He bypassed my clit — thank the fucking stars because that bitch was always painful after orgasm — and told my hole how he was going to wreck it while laving and tonguing me back into receptivity.

    “Then do it already,” I snapped after he whispered into my pussy about filling it up until it burst. What a fucking thing to say. Bursting organs would fucking _hurt._ Though I was interested in the idea of simply _leaking_ his cum. I was on the Potion, he could fill me and let me shine with it in his painting.

    “I like fucking you,” Dean said then, kissing my mouth and shoving his tongue inside so he could force me to taste myself. I stunk on his face and in his mouth. I didn't say ‘yellow,’ but maybe next time I would. He made some promises and I wanted to suck on his tongue through them. “You don't need coddling. I hate coddling.”

    “I do need it. After. Right now I want you to do all those things you just spent five minutes of my vagina's time promising it.”

    “So then, green?” he said teasingly, his cockhead pushing at my entrance, then back off, then back in in quick pulses that went nowhere.

    “Toot-toot, all aboard!” I crowed, tilting my head back so that I wasn't screaming directly in his face.

    He laughed. “So fucking weird,” he said.

    But then he slammed into me, ruthless, lovely, so I didn't slap a lesson in chivalry into him. His hand went to my hair, gripping it in his hand and holding my head tight, back into the bench, as his other pushed down on my lower stomach, feeling himself through my skin as he pummeled into me.

    I wondered where he got these ideas and I wondered if he knew how much I fucking loved them. Probably, because I screamed at him almost immediately to never stop.

    “Green?” he asked as his hand moved from my hair to lightly rest on my throat.

    “Yes,” I moaned. “No choking, hold me there. Green, green, green —”

    It was so good. _He_ was so good. I wanted this forever. Too much, too much, perfect just like that —

    His hand pressed down.

    I clawed and scraped as he fell onto me, letting go of my throat almost as soon as he'd cut off my air.

    “RED! Very fucking  _red_ , Dean, what the _fuck_!”

    “I'm so sorry, I slipped. My weight slipped. It was an accident. Are you okay?”

    Fuck. _Was_  I? I think I was crying. Why was I crying?

    Dean's beautiful two-toned hands wiped my face. Yeah, apparently it  _was_  wet. “Jesus, Ginny, I'm sorry. I swear, I didn't mean to. My hand slid off the edge of the bench, and my weight went to that hand automatically, accidentally. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.”

    Fuck, what a pussy. I didn't even know if I meant myself or him. “Is this something I can't remember?” I said then. “I don't know why I'm crying right now.”

His eyebrows furrowed. They were nice ones — thin shape, but thickly haired, nice and dark even on his complexion. “They only went after your work memories, and… well,  _he's_  not the type. What about the other guy?”

    “No,” I said. “Not the type either. Must be nothing.”

    Dean's frown stayed. He was limp then, too. Shit. This was not going well.

    I reached for him. “I could —”

    “Let's paint you like this,” he said, interrupting. “I'm fucked with guilt right now, and you called ‘red’ anyway, we need to stop. You had dinner?”

    “No…”

    “It'll take a while, and we're starting late. I'll order something.”

    Dean arranged the fabric again, straightening and folding the top into prim order on one side and thumbing my exposed nipple into a stiff peak on the other, and spreading the lower half of the ‘robes’ and lifting my leg in a lazy pose to completely expose my vagina. I wondered if it was still swollen, still glistening with his spit and my own wet desire. Probably not. I was fucked with guilt and fear now, too.

    He painted for a while, flaccid and frowning. Finally, with a huff, he set his brush down on his table and stormed over to me.

    “It's not right,” he said. “I'm going to make it right.” Then he knelt by me and took my nipple into his mouth. Damn, that boy was good with his tongue. My breath rasped as he sucked,  _hard_ , and nipped and then sucked _and_   _pulled_  back with his head,  _just_  on the verge of ouch, before letting me go with a completely ostentatious 'pop’ sound.

    “Better,” he said, and walked away.

    I wanted to argue — seriously who the fuck was this guy, leaving me like this? — but when I looked down I could clearly see the difference. Beneath the sheen of his spit my nipple was swollen and bruised, the pinky-tan of my nipple dark and purpling from the hickey-strength suction he'd applied to it.

    He was half-hard then. Like last time, he was thin at the base and thick towards the tip and far too delicious looking… but hanging down between his legs instead of standing proud. I wondered if this time he would try to get his hands between my legs again as I tried to leave. I didn't want to ruin the picture he needed, or I would have tried to entice him to make it sooner. It wouldn't have been the same without the sounds, anyway. I'd need some of his come inside me first.

    “You look good,” Dean said, his dark eyes glittering from all the lights he'd gathered around my bench. “I can tell what you're thinking about… it makes a beautiful sight between your legs.”

    “You want to know  _exactly_ what I'm thinking?” I asked. I _sounded_  good too. Coy, cute. He was totally going to take the bite.

    “No.” Dammit. “Keep thinking it, though. Look at me, and think it. Look so good…”

    Ah, fuck him. Fuck him, fucking me. Hmm, that's a thought. Really, though, I just wanted it to play out just like last time, fucking until I came and then him keeping at it until he went too. Intensity heaven. I was pretty bummed that he'd fucking choked me and now I was laying here, only  _half_ -done.

    “The pout is cute too, but not what I'm going for.” Dean sighed then. “A compromise. I need you hungry and wet. I can help with that.”

    So he did. He came right over, stroking his halfie into a stiffy, and worked it into me, understanding after the long time between I wasn't wet and needed a little slip-and-slide to get it in comfortably.

    “Better?” He asked against my mouth. He slid all the way in, pressed, and then all the way out. Slow. Comfortable. _Horrifically familiar._

    “Harder,” I complained by way of reply.

    “Nope. I need you hungry, Ginny-girl. Starving. You starving for me? You want this cock?”

    “No,” I moaned. It was too slow. Too gentle. I couldn't have it like this. I was going to lose it. “Faster, or I call it, Dean, I'm serious.”

    “Fuck. I see it on your face. Okay, here —” His hips pistoned into me then, not slapping deep, but each thrust was a controlled, quick jerk, partway in, then all the way out. “Better like this?”

    “Not enough,” I protested.

    “But still green. Not like before.”

    I pouted, this time on purpose. “Still green,” I conceded. “Better than… than before.”

    He seemed to believe in charity, like the Harpies, because he licked his thumb until it was wet and sloppy and then brought it between us, circling it over my clitoris in the same odd pattern as his thrusts.

    “There you are, Ginny-girl,” he praised as the action finally gave me enough to work with — to grip back at him, to moan and writhe. It wasn't enough, wasn't _near_  enough, but it was at least _something_ , and Dean was up now, body straight as he took control of my body and watching him tower over me was something too.

    Until he pulled out and walked away.

    “I swear on  _all_ magic, Dean,” I raged.

    “Hungry, remember,” he said, far too content to be several feet away with his dick hard and beautiful unspent.

    “ _Fuck_!”

    “Yes. Eventually. I promise, as long as you're green. Just hold on to the pleasure and let me get you like this.”

    “I'm fucking angry!”

    He came back then, and went to his knees again. I didn't have to ask why, just keened out in excitement and then pleasure as his mouth returned down to my nether-lips, parting them with tongue and fingers, spreading spit and heaven all around.

    “Keep it,” he whispered into me, fingers sliding so very well inside me. “Keep it.”

    This time when he left I was ready. I hated it, but I was ready, and managed to fantasize about him coming back and fucking me, instead of me going over there and murdering him, biting off his dick and throwing it out in the street. He  _looked_  hot too. Fully hard the whole time, biting the pink part of his lip, staring at both me and his painting as if he wanted to dip his dick in both of us as fast as possible.

    “It's done enough,” he said after at least an hour, actually throwing his paintbrush to the ground. He didn't even clean it, it left a splatter where it landed and everything.

    “Fuck me,” I breathed into his mouth, leaving my pose to grab onto him and shove him back, straddling his hips and pressing myself down.

    “Seems like you're the one fucking me,” he quipped. “Or trying to. Hold on, it's been too long, you've dried, here,” he spat into his hand and coated his tip with it. “Try now.”

    That was much better. Never tried spit before. I guess it made sense. I usually had to suck Harry into hardness before he could — no, no.

    “So tame,” hissed Dean. “I don't think you're with me.”

    “Fuck. Stupid head.” I slammed myself down then, bracing myself over him and trying to keep my eyes on the things that made Dean, Dean. Hands, lips, braids, eyes, cock, cock, cock…

    “You look so good, Ginny-girl… looking at yourself swallowing me up. It feels good, doesn't it? My cock moving inside you.”

    When the fuck had he gotten so good at dirty talk? He should have done that  _last_ time instead of acting so high and mighty and removed.

    “Keep talking,” I pleaded. “So good.”

    He flipped us over, which was good because my muscles were beginning to burn. I was done using him, now I wanted him to use me.

    “You like the way I talk to you, Ginny-girl? Fuck, I could talk to  _you_  all night long. You look so fucking good, sprawled out with your hair all around you. You make such a pretty god-damn picture on my canvas and on my cock. Love the way you look right now, so fucked out you can hardly breathe, can you? Green?”

    Ginny knew after mentioning breathing he probably worried he'd said something dumb. “Gree — een, oh,  _shit,_  please —”

    “That's right, glorious Ginny-girl, beg for my cock. Beg for more. Beg for less. But I'll keep destroying you, piece by piece. Fuck, you feel so good... so beautiful —”

    By sheer luck my orgasm crashed into me as _his_ did into him. I would have been  _pissed_ if after all that he came first and walked away again. Though, hopefully with all his talk of destruction he would have had the courtesy to keep banging away at it until I came too. Huh. Was I shaking? I was definitely shaking.

    “Come on, Ginny-girl. Let's get you warmed up.”

    “I'm not fucking cold.”

    “Aftercare. You said earlier you need it. Come on, I live upstairs, you can stay the night.”

    That gave me pause.

    “I'm not allowed to date. My Healer wants me to wait until marriage or something fucked like that.”

    “Then get a new one. She sounds terrible.”

    “I don't think I can. Court-appointed.”

    “The  _point_  was for you to get help. If you hate it and she gives you shite advice like that then you need to find someone more compatible. Soon, before time is up and you've spent all that time and no good came out of it.”

    “My brain is scrambled. No good _will_ come out of it.”

    Dean unpinned the fabric carefully and folded it before setting it aside. The care he took made me wonder if I had done something worse than I thought by ripping up the last one. It was just unsewn fabric, I didn't realize it might have great worth. He flicked my forehead to bring my back to the present, then crowded me into the shower and began _washing_  me.

    “What are you doing?”

    “Don't look at me like that. I happen to be really good at this part. Aftercare is my bread and butter.”

    I should've complained. I should have pushed him out of the shower and drowned in there by myself. But still, it was kind of… nice. Certain…  _other…_ persons had not wanted to shower with me, to go over my body like Dean was doing, with careful hands and rather masculine smelling soap.

    “I'm going to smell like a boy now.”

    “I think you'll find that with me that's not a problem.”

    “I don't like that.”

    “Then don't think about it.”

    When his fingers had cleaned my sides and legs and then reached between them, I shut off the water. He looked at me quizzically, but then there was that pleasant sound from his fingers — just a little  _schlip_ and he read it all over my face. Fucking genius observant man.

    “You like the noises don't you? Even after I was rude last time you had a hard time pulling away.” His current finger game was… uh,  _different_ , but the noises were loud as hell so I knew he was doing it on purpose.

    “Not  _just_  the noises,” I answered drily. “Don't forget there's a whole fucking vagina in there.”

    He laughed. “Yes, ma'am, Ginny-girl. Let's see if I can do this right.” And then he did. Really, between his mouth, his dick, and his fingers he had a pretty strong resume. If he kept attacking my body like he did I was going to have to do something stupid, like come back, but this time in purpose. _Stalker_.  _Stalker._

    He was thick against my hip, so I turned to him, lifting my leg and then fit him inside me.

    “Let's give it more to make noise with,” I whispered, and he grinned. He pressed me hard against the cold tiles, and took, took, took. Perfect. Afterwards, it  _did_ sound better, and my used flesh felt so good in his pretty, pretty, pretty hands...

    I sighed. No doubt about it, I would be back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next few updates wont be Ginny-centric. Her story is not yet finished, but it will be out of view for a time before we pick back up. (The epilogue-shots are going to be chronological.)
> 
> I haven't heard anyone say it, but I am absolutely certain not everyone likes her chapters. For those that dislike them, thank you so much for letting me create them anyway. While I worked on them I explored some really nasty parts of myself... going into a feral place of depression and self-hatred and bringing it out into the light to show y'all and I appreciate that you let me. :)


End file.
